Co-dependency
by csfcsf
Summary: They are friends. Phone calls are expected, but rarely like this. How do you save a friend from his own darkness? Mentions of tea and 221B, but no hugs. Two small takes on Sherlock and John's protectiveness of each other on the dark times - John battles an incoming PTSD episode and Sherlock struggles to keep afloat on a dark obsessive mood.
1. Chapter 1

_**.**_

Sherlock was fuming. On the outside he struggled to keep calm and collected, but he could tell his mask was slipping. A phone call. A simple innocuous phone call. John's number. A strange high pitched tone in his friend's usually controlled voice. The worst birthday celebration invitation ever. 'Come and get me. _Please_, I didn't know who else to call. Mary is not even in London this weekend. I wouldn't want her to see me like this... Just, _come_.'

'John, what's wrong? Where are you? I'm coming to get you, hang in there, you're going to be okay.'

The paintball range. A birthday surprise from Greg and a few other Yarders to Anderson. John had been invited to join in, they heard he had a good shot.

_Great_. They went and put and army veteran in a fake war scenario with a gun on his hand, ducking for cover.

Right now, John is battling an incoming PTSD episode like he didn't have for a long time. He's breathing in and out, he forced himself out of the range, but even at the locker room, hiding in a shower cabin, he can feel the tremors racking his body, his brain fighting through a fog of swirling war memories, the echoes of distant gunfire and screaming. Probably smells, too. Sherlock can only guess.

Somehow, Sherlock is already in a cab, telling the cabbie he needs to speed up. He doesn't feel he's being taken serious. Could be the dressing gown he's neglected to trade for his long coat. It doesn't really matter, John's the matter. No, of course it matters. John can't ever know he's anxious, Sherlock needs to act like it's nothing, mirroring what he wants to see in John. Rapidly he shrugs off the dressing gown. He's going to throw it in the trash before he reaches the paintball place.

Bright coloured sign, promises of fun plastered in the sign outside the brick walled industrial complex. How did John not know it was a bad idea upon arrival, Sherlock wondered, as he pay the cabbie for the ride.

He probably did. But either thought he couldn't back down and show fear to the Yarders lot, or he thought he had to come to terms with it once and for all. Both, most probably.

Sherlock's phone rang. Greg's number. Hopefully he's just noticed John's absence and he's wondering if Sherlock is the cause. Or if Sherlock really doesn't want to join in, it's fun. Most of all, hopefully Greg hasn't found the melting down soldier hiding in the showers like a man scared for his life. Which he is.

Sherlock runs in, light-footed, trying not to draw attention to himself. Luckily the staff seems distracted at the front desk and he crosses right through to the male locker rooms.

'John? Are you here, John?'

'Identify yourself!' is the panic stricken demand muffled from the corner shower. A closed opaque door between them. Sherlock worries John has crossed the invisible line already.

'You phoned me, John, remember?' Sherlock checks that all the locker area is free of spectators. 'You asked me to come here and get you.'

'Who - are - you?' John's voice is cold and lost and hurt, and confused. Sherlock identifies all those nuances one by one. He understands John hasn't crossed the line, but he's fairly close.

Years of friendship had taught him every nuance of John's voice.

'The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Stop asking silly questions, John.'

'Right... Sherlock.'

'You asked me to come.'

'I shouldn't have. I don't want you here.' John's voice was cold, now.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. That was unexpected.

'I'm not going to hurt you.'

'I know that.'

'Why do you wish me to leave?'

'I'm a mess, isn't that enough reason, Sherlock?' There's a vulnerability in his voice now, like a childish request to be overridden by his friend's insistence. This time Sherlock understands it. It's a testament to the years of friendship shared that Sherlock actually understands that John is ashamed of his triggered reactions, and that he knows how to react.

'John, don't make me go in and get you. Come out and let's go back to Baker Street. I've got a case I need a doctor's opinion on.'

'Not a good time here to look at crime scene photos, Sherlock... Oh god, the blood...' John actually whimpers.

Okay, Sherlock's mistake. Time to brush it aside. What would John do to calm John down?

'The violin. I can play the violin, then. A few of your favourite Bach pieces.'

'Yes, that's good.' John is taking deep breaths now, steadying himself, regaining control. 'Keep going like that.' John is helping Sherlock help John.

Sherlock smiles silently. He really wants to give back that trust, that help available at all times, even when the ex-soldier is a mess inside his head.

'I could make you some tea. Better yet, you could make me some tea, John.'

'Sherlock? Not very good with breakable porcelain right now...' Tremors, then. That hardly surprises Sherlock, he can hear them rattle his friend's voice.

'Two spoons of sugar for me, John, and swirl the tea until you dissolve them. Then you always do the same thing before you put the spoon down, John.'

'I tick it against the edge of the cup.' The sensorial and mechanical memories are doing the trick, grounding him in a safer reality.

'You always make the best tea, John. While you make tea I can lit the fireplace.'

'No, better not, too hot already. Not until _this_ subsides, Sherlock. Then yes, please, do that.'

Hot like the desert, got it. 'I can get some biscuits from Mrs H, John, to go with the tea.'

John lets go of a shaky brief laugh. 'Steal them, is more like it.'

'She always forgives me.'

'She's a saint.'

'Yes, she is.'

The locker room door softly clicks shut behind Sherlock, startling him. He turns on his heels to recognise Anderson standing there, uncertain. How long has he been there? Has he heard John? Will he say something wrong? Likely. The man never used to miss a chance to berate Sherlock for being a freak. And yet the forensic technician is fairly demure.

'Give us five minutes, Phil. Don't let anyone in', he whispers as a secret request. The consulting detective that has so often publicly humiliated the forensic investigator is now gently, politely, requesting Anderson to play along. For John.

Anderson nods. He turns his back and leaves, holding the door silently as he closes it behind him. Not an idiot anymore.

'John?' Sherlock restarts, in a warm tone of voice. If not coming from a self-proclaimed sociopathic detective, one might say his voice was sweet and understanding. 'Let's go home.'

'I left. They'll be looking for me', he giggles with little control. 'I was in the blue team with Greg.'

Greg should have seen it coming. Greg can waste his time searching in vain.

'It's someone else's birthday treat, John. They'll hardly pay attention to you.'

'It's Anderson's birthday, and he invited you too.'

Oh, right, Sherlock had said he had _a thing_, the usual excuse.

'Never mind him, John. Please come out of there and let's just go. You can stay at Baker Street tonight.'

'I may not be much of a guest tonight', John gives in before taking one long deep breath. He's coming out.

Sherlock rapidly reaches the locker room door and gestures to Anderson. The man nods, looking relieved, and goes back to the sports area, ready to act like nothing is up. Sherlock is sure to get him a birthday present after all. Online. Anonymously.

'Sherlock.'

John has just emerged from the shower cabin, removing his blue team protective vest. The helmet had been off for a while, but he hasn't realized his blondish hair is all spiked up in disarray. Sherlock comes very near him, worrying he may startle John in his state, and brushes past him to reach his gym bag. John just watches him silently as Sherlock picks up the bag and waits for John to leave first. Sherlock follows right behind. He's got John's back in battle and out of it.

Ten minutes past, Sherlock's phone vibrates in his pocket. He picks up the call as the cab rolls the streets. Under John's gaze, he answers: 'Lestrade, I thought you were busy tonight. Is this a new case for me? ... John? John is on his way here, to Baker Street. I may just have phoned him saying I may have ingested poison by mistake. Can you override the ambulance, Lestrade? ... No, I wasn't poisoned. The victim was. I need his opinion ... Why would he be upset?'

Sherlock disconnected the call, John's smiling softly. Still a bit too quiet, but Sherlock takes what he can get. And then there'll be Baker Street, Bach, and tea and stolen biscuits. John is not alone.

_**.**_

_Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats._

___A/N: Obviously I'm not overly familiar with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I hope my approach to an incoming episode in this narrative wasn't in any way disrespectful to those who are more familiar with it. That was far from my intentions. My focus was on the person standing outside, struggling to help and not create further damage, and the person going through it, struggling to maintain his dignity and still reach out._


	2. Chapter 2

_**.**_

'John... You said if I was ever near it again... I could have called, I could have talked to you... Last time, you said that.'

John is holding his phone up to his ear, having just picked up Sherlock's call. The usually controlled and assertive voice is now uneven, running a shiver across his spine and he shuts his eyes. For a moment those words transport him back to Molly's sterile lab, after that one time he went looking for his neighbour's son and came back with "undercover" Sherlock Holmes as well. John knows very well what this is about.

'John, I can almost hear the gears turn in your head. So blissfully slow, how relaxing it must be.' His voice is also clearly anxious, upset, and petty even, but John knows it comes from a place of hurt and vulnerability.

Sherlock often claims that his brain moves too fast, no one else is like him, and no one can reach through the haze. But sometimes John can. John will always try.

'I'm on my way, Sherlock. I'll always come, you know that. I'm glad you called.' That's right, John, don't give him a chance to disconnect. Keep him on the line as long as you can. On your way now. Where is he? Baker Street, of course. Home and refuge. He'll have taken cover from the world for a while now. This time the refuge isn't enough. He called for help. That's good.

John, this one, whatever the outcome, is on you. Don't disappoint him.

'_Glad?_ You like hearing me? The distress in my voice makes you happy? Can you hear the hateful tone of my voice? Emotions!' He was practically screaming on the phone now. 'I can't make them go away, John!'

Okay, social conventions like "glad you called" will be completely misunderstood today. 'Yes', John keeps his ground, loyal. 'I'm glad because I know how it feels. That's why I'm on my way to Baker Street now.'

That's it. Be explicit, explain what you actually mean.

Damn. I'm boring him now. He'll disconnect me now, won't he?

'Get a cab.'

John smiles softly in relief. He's just bought time. 'I'm on it, Sherlock.' It's obvious, but it needs to be said. John is using his doctor voice now, purposefully appeasing by training, but he can't hide the strain it carries.

'You're worried', Sherlock tries to mock John for showing emotions. The doctor can tell that in a hurt sort of manner, Sherlock is revelling in John's strain, because in a sick twisted logic it proves that John cares, and that actually matters to Sherlock at a time he's feeling so lost, about to drown in his own mind.

'Sherlock, just keep talking to me.'

'I have nothing to say to you.' Anger, _hurt,_ all over again.

'Right.' Still too far away. He needs to keep his cool in a moment when the detective has lost his. Play his cards right, like in a poker game, evaluate his possibilities. Sherlock's the wild card. The one people play to win the deck or throw away to frame someone else. Most people in Sherlock's life have pushed him away. John will always keep him as close as he'll let him. He'll always admire Sherlock, even in his danger moods, because Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock without them. 'Sherlock...' he starts, drawing blanks on what to do.

Damn it, John, don't you dare failing him, that's not an option!

'Give me something to focus on, John, please, give - me - something.'

Sherlock Holmes doesn't ask, he just takes. He completely misses the point of social niceties, unless he plans to manipulate someone.

He's just begged, skipping over his own rules. And if he did, John muses, it certainly wouldn't be politely. What is happening?

Stick to the plan, John. This is on your shoulders, now. You can do it.

'Hm... Read about a triple homicide in Manchester yesterday.'

'Solved it yesterday. I meant something that can challenge me, John.'

'How about working on a new way of preserving fingerprints at crime scenes, Sherlock?'

'The Yard can just photograph the fingerprints, don't be an idiot.'

Fine, John can work with insults, and roll them over his thick skin. It just means he's got his attention at last. Let's goad him by lightening the mood: 'One of these days you'll make me believe I'm an idiot. The only person that has called me an idiot more than you has been my sister when we were kids.'

Sherlock takes a deep breath, John can hear it. The doctor doesn't really notices he's holding his own breath, like a man about to get jumped by all sides.

'You have cousins, John...' he hears, in a soften, pleading voice.

Oh. Cousins and sister. Family. Mostly unknown to Sherlock, too. Distraction. But why would he care about John, about his family? No, scratch that, it doesn't matter why, just give it to him.

'Not going to tell you about them. You already saw them at the wedding. Go ahead and prove yourself, detective.' Has he pushed too hard? One never knows with Sherlock one moment the ascetic genius, the next the problem child. And John's heart brakes at the comprehension that he may be hurting Sherlock further.

'Don't give me clues!' Sherlock disapproves, slightly maniacally. Clues? Oh, right, mentioning the wedding day. 'Are you on your way, John?' The question is tense, but there's an underlining frailty that leaves John on edge.

'On my way and not a word more, sorry.' Sorry for the clues, sorry for not being able to get there faster, sorry for your pain, I understand it, I truly do. No, never say that out loud, it wouldn't help. And you're a soldier, for crying out loud. Act like one, do your job. Your job is to save lives. Sherlock is slipping, it's the most important assignment you've ever had.

'Oh, John, you may not speak, but I can hear your breathing. I can tell what you are thinking as clearly as if you were standing right here. You have four cousins. By the way they are all taller than you.' Go ahead, Sherlock, rub it in, don't let the pettiness of the jab stop that gigantic brain of yours. 'You are all blonds, recessive genes, so less likely to be a history of extra-marital affairs, one could think – wrong!'

'I do think you paid enough attention', John says a few seconds in. All control restored, he's taunting Sherlock back, playing along. And Sherlock's on edge, he's on a roll now, couldn't stop if he tried. A monologue about Higgins' affair with Berta from the bakery. John has no clue how Sherlock is pulling information like that out of his breathing pattern, it looks more like Sherlock once ran the registers for his family tree (which wasn't beneath him), but John would hardly been so interesting for Sherlock, right?

'I didn't know that', John realizes, never questioning the deductions.

'Saintly John', Sherlock mocks, acid. He'll probably mock him about John coming to him now. Well, let him. 'By the way, your family is boring.'

'Tell me about it.' John realizes he's actually smiling, he probably shouldn't be. There is a hitch in Sherlock. What did John say? Oh.

'You never speak ill of your family, John', Sherlock reminds him after a couple of seconds. As if he had been waiting for John to catch up. Probably was. 'Your cab just stopped in front of the door, John.'

'How-?' Never mind.

'I heard it in the background, obviously. Just pay up. You have the key. You've never gave it up. Just get in. Fast.'

'Sherlock, what are you not telling me?' There's fear in John's voice.

'The usual.' Distant, faking control.

'Damn it. Have you done it yet?'

'No. But almost. Too close. Still need to. But you said I had to – call – you.'

The cab door was shut a bit too forcefully. The keys on the key chain. Metal on metal as the key enters the lock. Heavy footsteps as John races upstairs. Then John is finally there, stupidly still holding his phone to his ear, even now that Sherlock is only a few feet away from him, he never wants to sever that connection.

'Sherlock.'

John scans Sherlock up and down with his clinical eyes. A shapeless lump on the sofa is what the great detective is reduced to. His thin arms draping off from the edge of the seat, every muscle is relaxed, too relaxed, and he suspects he may be too late – he'll just deal with the aftermath then, he's done it before. But no, there is still bright light in Sherlock's eyes, making them look more exotic in colour, that proves he's managed to hold it off. John smiles sincerely, an unscripted smile to the drained, miserable, mind-racing-in-reverse detective. He doesn't expect Sherlock to smile back.

'Tea?'

Sherlock loses whatever temper he's managed to hold on to, from the depths of himself. 'How's tea going to help me? Idiot!'

'Coffee, then? No, not about to pump you on coffee with you like that.'

'Just leave, John, get the hell out!' Sherlock is actually hollering now.

'No.'

'I can make you', he threatens, and his irate look promises he can deliver. From the depths of his dark mood, he might actually enjoy it. John doesn't budge.

'I'd almost like to see you try, Sherlock.'

The detective freezes, then sits up in the sofa in one swift movement. 'You're tricking me. You're diverting my attention by means of angering me. Good, John, that's actually new. Why are you doing that, though?'

'The world needs you, Sherlock. I'm not letting you go, whatever the cost may be.'

Sherlock physically shivers, and John doesn't miss it. John has his whole attention now. He takes the opportunity to plead: 'Tell me where you hid it this time, give it up to me.'

The genius hesitates, only for a second. Acceptance. 'Behind the mirror over the fireplace, John. Keep it. But don't be so convinced I wouldn't hurt you, John.'

'Am not', he alleges.

Sherlock sighs at last, relief seeping through him as John takes hold of the temptation. Because John has come, and he's acting out of complicity, understanding, and acceptance. He's a welcomed distraction.

As John pulls the mirror back and turns to the kitchen, he has a glance of Sherlock smiling, just for a second. 'Want to play your stupid board games?'

'They're not stupid. You're stupid.' The five years old consulting detective is back, smirking sideways at his own tease. John can take that any day. Sherlock's not alone.

_**.**_

_Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats._

_A/N: This second take was particularly challenging. I hope I made it justice. Please notice, I'm not placing in the same metaphorical bag an addiction and a PTSD disorder. They're vulnerable spots for the characters, which was my starting point. -csf_


End file.
